Folie a Deux
by Caisele
Summary: AU. Harry Potter is a cop, and Draco Malfoy is definitely up to no good. Despite those bright eyes, that perfect hair, and incessant innuendos, Harry is definitely not in the habit of fraternizing with the enemy. But habits can change. HPDM. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Folie a Deux**

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AU: no wizards, no Hogwarts, no magic…although, anything that can make Harry and Draco get together is really nothing short of magic.

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xxx

Every police station in the city was short staffed.

It was the dog days of summer, everything was a mess, and everyone was mad. The major highway were being torn up, people were protesting the city hall – something about excessive expenses, and some morons were phoning in with bomb threats every week. The regular criminal kinds were taking advantage of the chaos when Harry wished they would just take a vacation.

It was a bad time for a city councillor to go missing.

The folder on the desk read "Harry Potter – Homicide", and under that folder were scores more – old cases, new cases, all were paperwork, waiting to be done. Harry had been chugging though overtime hours for a straight week as it is. Then there was also the monthly delivery of "Unwanted", which were corpses sitting in the morgues unidentified and unclaimed.

But apparently the usual Missing Persons guys were more loaded down than Harry, so Captain Dawlish assigned the councillor's case to him instead.

"Give it a once over, Potter," the Captain gave Harry his don't-argue look. "The man probably ran off with his debts, knowing his reputation, but his wife wants him dead on paper."

"That's a bit quick, isn't it?" Harry glanced at the file. "He's only been gone two weeks."

The Captain shrugged. "Talk to her, talk to the secretary, talk to everybody. I want this out of my hair as soon as possible."

It sounded easy…at the time.

Harry hated doing interviews. People tend to forget things, they tend to lie. Sometimes they change their answer when you ask them the same question too many times. It was a fucking nightmare. Turned out Councillor John Beechwood was a gambler. He may owe some people money, he may not. He and the missus were on the outs, something about a maid. He was no Bond villain. Hardly any real life criminals were. He was a regular Joe with no enemies, just a lot of friends who were under the impression that he had eloped with the help, and a mildly impatient wife who kept asking when she could claim his life insurance. She didn't seem fazed by the pictures Harry showed her of her husband's car, found in a field off the interstate. She didn't even blink when Harry told her they found traces of blood belonging to two people in the front seats. She was a bad liar.

The temptuous maid was a dead end too. She supposedly went back to the Philippines to visit family at around the same time the councillor disappeared. Harry had a file with a copy of her plane ticket, and a mp4 from the airport showing her boarding. Harry had thought the family paid the girl off and told her to never come back.

Harry had seen more elaborate insurance scams, but he was relieved that his job here was done. There were no bodies found in the car, so there was no need for Harry. The investigation will be handled by the Fraud unit from there. Last thing on the To Do list was his report.

And then Harry got a call. They found the body of the maid.

"In the Philippines?" Harry said, "Well that's out of my jurisdiction."

"No. They found her in the underpass of the interstate. Strangled."

Harry took up some more overtime, even though he promised himself he wouldn't. Ron and Hermione had been asking him over for weeks now for dinner, but Harry could never make the time. He liked spending time with his friends, he really did, but the domestic bliss the couple had settled into since their wedding had been borderline depressing to Harry. It was hard to explain that feeling he gets after bidding goodbye to them with a forced smile, watching them wave him off from the porch of their pretty suburban detached, knowing all that was waiting for him at home were empty rooms, a can of beer, and the knowledge that the last time he got laid was five months ago. He didn't even get properly laid – it was a fevered tussle in the bathroom of a gay club.

It didn't get really bad until about a week ago, when Harry caught himself checking out everything that had a pair legs and something that dangled in between. Shit, a few days ago he had to force himself to tear his eyes away from the Captain's backside. Dawlish was nothing like the type of men Harry usually fantasised about, in fact he bore a striking resemblance to a tall angry Santa Claus. Which was the complete opposite of what Harry wants writhing underneath him.

Sometimes he doesn't get as bothered, but sometimes he just wanted to hole up in his little apartment, wallowing in self pity and passivity and never see sunlight again. Harry couldn't afford to put himself in that place right now. He had a case on his hands.

From the day book Harry had obtained from the councillor's secretary, it appeared as if the man kept a busy schedule. For a lousy gambler, the councillor appeared to have much better luck in his other ventures. He had regular meetings with his financial advisor, some meetings with a private investor, and weekly lunches with what he denoted as "the boys" from the stock market. He received bank statements from four different financial institutions, had two very expensive mortgages, and a few line of credits that almost rivalled those. Everything was nearly maxed out. Mr. Councillor lived beyond his means and it was catching up to him.

Even so, that was a lot of meetings with a lot of bankers. Something about that didn't sit right.

Harry spent the night at the station, poring through every statement and every letter.

He met Dawlish at the door in the morning, visibly rumpled and sleep deprived. "Look at this, sir – it's Beechwood's phone records. He had a work phone issued by the City Hall, he had it listed as his Batphone, because it was never supposed to turned off and it was how the mayor could get a hold of him in case of emergencies, but according to these records, the cell was switched off every now and then in the middle of the day."

"Ran out of batteries?" Dawlish suggested gruffly. He did not like to be cornered first thing in the morning, before he had his first cup of coffee.

But Harry didn't care. "No, sir, these blackouts matched with appointments he had at the Hunt Club downtown. I did some digging and made a few calls to the restaurant. I think he was meeting with a private investor."

"Got a name?"

"Yes, sir."

Dawlish suppressed a yawn. "Look him up then."

"I did. I couldn't find him in any of our databases, so I sent a request up to the Feds, gonna see if they have anything on the guy…in the meantime, I made an appointment. I'm going to meet him at his office."

"Good," Dawlish said, heading toward the coffee machine, "when's the appointment?"

Harry looked down at his cell. "In twenty minutes."

Dawlish raised an eyebrow. "You're going now? Dressed like that?"

Harry looked down. He was dressed as he always does, black work pants, black walking shoes, black leather jacket, and black tie. "Yes, sir," he said uncertainly.

Dawlish snorted. "Haven't interviewed a banker before, have you, Potter? At least comb your hair."

Harry decided to forgo that piece of advice, he was working, not going on a date. But if he had know what he was about to see, he would have combed his hair ten times over, and more.

xxx

You would imagine you could see the world from the 48th floor, especially with these windows that spanned floor to ceiling and covered entire walls. But smog in the city this time of year is bad and in the financial district a lot of buildings were built up to 48 stories, and taller.

Draco Malfoy was waiting for his appointment to show up. It was the best time of the day to have unsolicited visitors. The sun had risen just high enough to shine directly into the office. Draco's chair had its back to the window, affording him the perfect lighting to spot every flicker of thought that passes through the countenance of his interviewer. Meanwhile, the visitor would have the sun in his eyes, and it would be annoying, to say the least. It was an old police interrogation method, only they usually used a single bulb light swinging from the ceiling. The detective should know all about that.

"Mr. Malfoy." Vincent Crabbe, his secretary, stood by the double doors of his office, "A Detective Potter is here to see you."

Draco straightened his silk tie and patted down the front of his fitted grey blazer. "Thank you Vincent, send him in."

Footsteps from the hallway neared, Draco heard Vincent showing the detective into the room. He squared his shoulders, back to the door. The first impression was everything, Draco's father had always told him, and he was planning to give a hell of a show.

Draco knew exactly how he looked in his fitted designer suit; it was a mix of intimidation and condescension. Not that he was intimidating naturally. His hair was too blonde to be manly and his figure was too slender to make anyone feel threatened, but the sharp angles of his cheekbones coupled with the icy color of his eyes could give most people a start.

Draco turned slowly, smug, thinking the detective won't know what hit him.

But it was Draco who was taken aback.

The detective was taking in his surrounding with quick darts of his dark eyes, habit of the trade, perhaps. He was tall, had broad shoulders, and big arms – not gym muscle, more likely gained from sports or physical work. He had a mess of black hair trimmed short and sticking up in every direction, and dark shadows under his shockingly green eyes. His dress shirt was rumpled and missing a button, a detail his tie almost managed to hide. His jacket was fraying at the sleeves and unzipped. Draco could just make out the edge of a badge clipped onto his belt. Disheveled as he was, the detective was easy on the eye, not classically handsome per se, but a good-looking fellow nonetheless. Draco had a soft spot for good-looking men. Everything about him was a confusing mix of repelling and appealing at the same time, and Draco couldn't help but notice the detective's raven locks were the perfect length for him to lace his fingers through.

"Detective Potter." Draco took a step forward and reached out his hand. The detective's eyes snap from where they were surveying the papers on Draco's desk to his as they shook hands. There was a flicker that rippled through the emerald green of those eyes. It was a fraction of a second, but Draco would never miss it. He saw the dilation in the pupils, but then again that could just be the sun. Or not.

The detective looked stunned for a moment. Draco had gotten that reaction before, but not usually from men. It was an unexpected turn of events. This meeting was nothing like what either of them had expected.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," the detective rasped then cleared his throat. "Thank you for seeing me."

"Would you like some coffee?" Draco asked congenially, not breaking eye contact.

"No, thank you," the detective replied quickly. He tried to smooth down his hair as Draco gestured him into a chair, and failed. That birdnest was a lost cause. He crossed hands on his lap, then reached inside his pocket for a small notepad, then thought better of it and tucked it away again. He gave off the air of someone who was self conscious but was not used to being so.

Draco took his seat behind his desk and laced his fingers together. There was a moment of pregnant silence. "How can I help you today, Detective Potter?"

The detective frowned and looked down, as if he had forgotten his reason of being here. At the sight of his bare hands, he reached inside his pockets once again and pulled out his notebook. "I had wanted to speak to you about one of your clients."

Draco hesitated for a heartbeat, scanning the detective's face for a clue. "Which client?"

"That would be a Mr. Beechwood," the detective replied, regaining his composure. He was definitely a man who liked to be in control of, above all things, himself. Whatever thought had flitted through his eyes earlier was evidently brushed aside.

Draco tugged his lips up into an easy smile. "Ah, the missing councillor." He didn't want to know where this line of questioning was going. "I think you're mistaken, detective. He was never my client."

"Then would you care to explain why he was meeting with you on multiple occasions in the month before his disappearance?" The detective asked levelly, business-like.

The question took Draco off guard.

"He was a potential client," Draco corrected himself. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you know he was meeting with me?"

"I do mind, actually," the detective said curtly, "and I cannot divulge that information."

If this was someone else's office and it was someone else that the detective was interrogating, Draco would have been impressed rather than furious, but this was Draco's office, and he was torn.

"You'll have to understand that I also cannot divulge the information you want," he said delicately.

"I don't need to know the details of his investments," the detective replied lowly. "I just needed to confirm that he did indeed invest with you."

Detective Potter was likely intelligent, brilliant at his job, perhaps, Draco could admit that, unfortunately that brilliance was becoming a nuisance for him. Draco locked his eyes with the detective, steeling his gaze. He sat back in his seat and gave the detective a small smile. "He didn't invest with me. He met with me to ask whether I would be interested in a venture that he had. He made his proposal and then left me to think on it."

"What kind of venture?"

Draco anticipated the question before it even left the detective's lips. "I'm afraid I cannot say. I signed a confidentiality contract."

The detective was relentless; his green eyes bore into Draco's, it wasn't necessarily a stare down, but it was close, there was edge in that look, and heat in those eyes. Draco would bet good money that some of that heat was not related to the topic at hand. "So, have you thought about investing?"

"Yes," Draco answered smoothly, then added, "I thought long and hard."

There was no mistaking that flicker in the detective's eyes this time. The other man cleared his throat again and began to scribble madly in his notepad.

Draco decided to try something. He unbuttoned his blazer and let it fall open. He tapped his long fingers on the table, and waited until the detective had finished writing before catching his eyes. He watched the detective's eyes sweep across his face, trace his jawline and drop into the opening of his collar. If they met under different circumstances Draco could perhaps indulge a little. Just a little nip of the teeth, brush of the lips, and flick of the tongue. But going down that train of thought now would be nothing short of futile.

"I'm sure the councillor has various investments with various financial institutions. Will you be interviewing everyone who managed his accounts?"

The detective had a slight flush on his cheeks as he lowered his gaze again to jot something else down. "As a part of the ongoing investigations we have acquired information on Mr. Beechwood's assets, however whatever he had invested with you remains unaccounted for in his statements."

"As I said," Draco reminded him, "he did not invest with me."

The detective's eyes were surprisingly alert for someone who looked so fatigued. "I didn't know that the councillor had so many different ventures," he said offhandedly.

Draco raised one arched eyebrow. "He was a man with thick fingers, and had them in many pies."

The detective blinked up at him, uncertain for a second before annoyance crossed his features. "I'm going to have to ask you to come to the station."

Draco stares at him, perfectly practiced bewilderment. "You want me to come…where?"

He had intended for it to sound like exactly how the detective obviously heard it. The man gave him a wide-eyed look that made Draco's toes curl. "Come to…uh, go down to the precinct."

"I can't," Draco said. The trajectory of this conversation had taken a turn into unwelcome territory. "I have business to attend to, money to make, and an image to maintain," Draco gestured around his office, "I can't be seen going into a police station for questioning. So unless you have reason to arrest me, detective, I will have Vincent show you out."

Draco found that he liked the detective's angry look just as the much as the others.

"That's Vincent, is it?" The detective turned to look at Vincent. "Hm, strange for a banker to have a body guard, don't you think?"

"Vincent is my secretary," Draco replied.

"He doesn't look like a secretary," the detective said, face stony, standing up. "To be honest, Mr. Malfoy, you don't look like a banker either."

Draco didn't ever like being challenged and he had never walked away from one. He stepped around his desk and closed the space between them. His snakeskin oxfords put him a good inch above the detective and he used that to his advantage. They were close enough now that Draco could tell the other man was holding his breath. It was for the better, as there was an odd mix of arousal and fury swirling inside Draco, and he wasn't sure which he would act upon if he could feel the detective's breath warm on his lips.

"Looks can be deceiving, detective. Have a good day," he said quietly, eyes lowering to fix on the other man's lips, then up again, feeling smug as he saw another flicker behind those emerald orbs. The eyes never lie.

xxx

Draco Malfoy was a block of ice, and just as impossible to read. He unsettled Harry in more ways than one, and it was hard to pin it down. It could be his perfect composure, practiced, disaffected, aloof. Harry didn't like those piercing grey eyes that went right through him, or that perfectly coiffed hair, so blonde that it was almost silver. It was a nervous thing, standing in front of him in his impeccable suit, sleek like chrome, and the color of granite. It was not these things in and of themselves, but the feeling they gave when put together. It was the feeling of barely contained distain and blatant boastful self-importance. All of which made the man's unnerving smirk and unending innuendos seem out of place.

Harry had thought for some moments that it was him who had his head in the gutter, but that man's nonchalant drawl did not distract from his carefully selected words. A precise man like him had to know exactly what he was saying.

The day after the meeting, Harry was told to lay off the councillor's missing person case.

Dawlish figured that even if they had gotten a lead it would probably extend outside of their jurisdictions. People don't usually run away to the other side of town, especially not a man with motives like the councillor, he was probably on the other side of the world. But they still had to investigate the death of the maid. She, unfortunately for Harry, was very much inside their jurisdiction.

But Harry was stuck.

They had video footage and witness testimony confirming that she had in fact boarded the plane she was supposed to. How she ended up dead two weeks later back in the city was anybody's guess. They had no suspects, no motive, and no hope of finding any. But Dawlish kept pushing, and Harry was getting desperate.

"I have a hunch," he told Hermione, one night at dinner. "But that's not going to be enough." Not to mention that he wasn't very keen on following through with it, considering who the hunch was about.

Hermione had a back office job, behind the scenes at Organized Crime. They can't help but talk shop at the table sometimes, much to Ron's annoyance.

"You think this Malfoy guy may know something?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, I do."

"Then talk to him again."

Harry made a face. He really wanted to avoid that route. "I can't ask him directly about the girl," Harry said, slightly defeated, prodding at the meatloaf on his plate absent-mindedly. "There is no evidence that they even knew each other."

Hermione helped herself to some soup. "Why do you think he's involved then?"

"He's not a banker." Harry wasn't sure how he knew but sometimes instincts were closer to the truth than what the eye could see. "Especially not the kind of mid-level investor he purports to be. He has his own corner office and a body guard."

The sharply angled décor and uncomfortable looking chair in that sky-high room rubbed him the wrong way. Harry didn't like how Vincent the secretary stood just inside the double doors of the office, wearing that black tailored suit with his hands folded in front of him like a bouncer outside the downtown clubs. Usually bankers had curvy secretaries with big bosoms and tight skirts, not burly men who were more suited inside a boxing ring than in front of a coffee machine.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," Ron interjected. "How's everything else going? How's life _outside_ of work?" He asked, while giving Hermione a pointed sideways look.

"What life?" Harry responded dryly.

Hermione grinned. "Well, have you been out about lately? You know, at night?"

"No. Not really."

Harry didn't miss that look Ron and Hermione shared at that. It made him uncomfortable that they were worried about him. His lack of a love life bothered him more than he let on, and he didn't want to have to talk to people about it.

They gave up when they couldn't get anything else out of him and the conversation moved on.

Harry went home with his mind thankfully occupied. He sat in front of his laptop and scoured the internet for anything he could find on Draco Malfoy. Malfoy was young, having been hired right out of business school to work for AVR, the private investment company that he represented. AVR was legit, Harry had heard of them before, and seen their logo emblazoned on downtown offices from afar. It went on the market about a decade ago and did surprisingly well since the IPO launch for such a small company.

Barring initiating an investigation and requesting warrants, there was not much else Harry could find on the man. Dead end, again.

The only photo of the man Harry could find was on AVR's personnel page. He looked in the picture just as Harry remembered, handsome, conniving, and cold. But the bastard sure could wear the hell out of a suit. Harry shook his head to discard that thought. He's had sex on his mind for a week now. Sure, he couldn't help thinking things in that bright, glassy office, and he'd be willing to admit Malfoy was a hell of an attractive man, but there was no need to keep entertaining those thoughts. It wasn't as if Harry could act on them, although the hardness between his legs was demanding him to reconsider.

No.

Snapping his laptop closed, Harry went back to his nightly infuriating review of the airport footage. He wasn't technically supposed to bring work home, but what Dawlish didn't know won't hurt him. He rewound the tape a bit too far and sat to stare dead-eyed at the screen, waiting for the dead girl to board her flight as she had done many times for multiple nights now.

Harry had only even been on the lookout for the girl, but with the thoughts he had popping up in his head tonight, he thought he was seeing things when a familiar figure sauntered on screen. Harry sat up in his seat and felt his eyes grow wide as saucers. He wasn't seeing things. There was Malfoy, boarding the same Philippines Airlines flight twenty minutes before the dead girl stepped through the gate. There was no mistaking that silver hair, that perfect black suit, and, interestingly, he had no carry-ons.

Harry frantically flipped through the stack of papers falling over on his desk, but for the life of him could not find the passenger manifesto.

He called his fellow homicide detective, and sometimes partner, Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was thankfully benevolent even at this time of the night. Kingsley was tasked with interviewing passengers from that flight for details regarding the girl. He had a copy of the passenger list. It took some digging, but it turned out Malfoy was indeed booked on that flight, but had supposedly missed it. Yet there he was on Harry's television screen, boarding it.

Harry sank back into his couch, eyes glued to the flicking screen, in disbelief at his good luck.

His triumph was short-lived, as he realized he would have to spend time in a room with that man again. Harry wasn't sure if he could come out of that meeting with his self-control intact, or if Draco Malfoy would find himself being fucked brainless on his office floor.

xxx

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 **Caisele:**

Thanks for reading. Haven't done a slash fic in a while, so don't be shy and show it some love?


	2. Chapter 2

**Folie a Deux**

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NOTE: I added an extra section to the last chapter a few days after it was first posted just so the story can flow the way I need it to. So if you have this story on alert, you may want to revisit the last chapter again before continuing below.

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xxx

Draco had lunch with his parents, as he did every Wednesday. His mother wanted to know who he was seeing, as she did every Wednesday.

"There's no one right now," he told her tiredly. No one permanent, that is, and who the temporary bed-mate was depended on his mood of the night.

"Is Nott working you too hard? I'll give him a call if you need," his father asked, only half jokingly. The Malfoys and the Notts had history, long history, like old money families often did. Mr. Nott was a board member at AVR, and a major stockholder too, so, naturally, when Draco received his MBA a coveted position at the company suddenly became available. The finance businesses ran a lot like the mafia – heavy on the nepotism.

"No, dad," Draco replied stiffly. "I've been picking my own projects, didn't leave myself a lot of time for other stuff."

His mother leaned forward conspiratorially. "There's a nice girl I can introduce you to."

Draco thought about having _this_ conversation constantly. He had about a hundred different responses, practiced and ready flittering through his mind, but he could never seem to find the right time. Today, especially, was not the right time.

"I'll think about it," he said as the waiter brought their bill around.

Draco's parents were big on the production of biological progeny. His father had a family business he was looking forward to hand off, and his mother had grandbabies she was looking forward to hold. The family name had to pass on as it had been for generations, centuries, even. It went without saying that a few billion years from now when the sun blew up and swallowed up the solar system, a silver-haired Malfoy was expected to be present for the fireworks. Unfortunately for Draco, that eventuality was up to him to ensure, because he was his parents' only child. His coming out wouldn't take a load off his chest, it would only add to it a thousand fold.

He wasn't in a rush to tell anybody anything. In fact, he was highly invested in ensuring his parents maintained their assumption that their family line would only end on the doomsday.

And that was only the smallest of his problems right now.

His main problem showed up in the form of a mop of black hair and sharp green eyes, standing next to the restaurant valet. For a second, Draco thought about turning right around, but then those eyes locked with his.

Draco breezed past him without stopping. "Normally, I require an appointment, detective."

"I just have a quick question, Mr. Malfoy." Potter said quickly. His voice was guarded and his tone was unreadable.

The detective was in jeans and a black t-shirt today, looking fairly more civilian than his leather jacket and his dirty pants. But you could still make out the bulge where he kept his gun under his shirt. He looked like he had gotten some sleep and took a shower. He looked better than he had at their last meeting, much better.

Later that evening, when Draco reflected upon the day, he would like to think that he didn't give into temptation, but he would only be fooling himself.

"I have a schedule to keep, detective," Draco said, slipping into the driver's seat, "but feel free to get in."

Potter only hesitated for a second.

"Nice car," the detective said thickly as they pulled away from the curb.

"Thank you, it was a gift."

"Hm." The detective looked out the window. "From a client?"

Draco snorted as they turned into traffic. "From my father."

"Ah." Whatever answer the detective was expecting, clearly this wasn't it. The moment of silence that followed sounded the end to the small talk. "I forgot to ask you the last time we met," the detective said smoothly. "how was your trip?"

Draco started, looking over to see Potter sneaking peeks at him from the corner of his eye. "Which trip?"

"The one you took a week ago. Air Philippines? Flight 620, departed at 8:15AM from Gate E13, Terminal 5?"

This man had a way of getting to Draco. One minute Draco was contently watching that t-shirt stretch over the muscles of his chest, and the next minute Draco wanted to throttle him.

"You're mistaken, detective," Draco responded slowly. "I was booked to fly that day, but I missed the plane."

"The business in Manila must not have been that important," Potter said, without missing a beat.

Draco didn't know what he was fishing at, so didn't answer.

Potter pressed on. "I noticed you didn't try to catch another flight that day, or ever again, for that matter."

Draco quietly pulled over onto a side street. Potter had a look like a hawk as it closed in on its prey. There was a time and place where Draco would like to see that look on the detective's face, where that look could make Draco feel things that sent shudders down his spine, but now is neither the time nor the place.

"This is your stop, detective."

The detective didn't move. "Is it?"

Potter had a perpetual melancholy in his demeanour that made Draco want to help him, throw him a bone, maybe give him one, too, while he was at it. But he was getting that feeling like he was playing with fire. As interested as he was, he couldn't risk being burned.

Draco punched a button and the passenger side's butterfly door opened slowly. "Next time, you'll need to make an appointment," Draco said lowly, "and I will need my lawyer in the room."

The detective fixed Draco with a glare that rivalled his own, and climbed out without another word, slamming the door behind him. As Potter stood on the sidewalk Draco saw the flicker of confusion cross his face. Potter must have just noticed that they were no longer in the city.

Draco rolled down his window. "John Street is a block that way," he offered helpfully, "and 8th Avenue is closer, just up ahead, but it'd probably be quicker if you just go _down_ on John."

He gave himself a small smirk of satisfaction at the stare the detective gave him before screeching away. Draco though he was very kind to the detective, genial as fuck, in fact, even when stranding him.

"Harry Potter," Draco said aloud to himself. He had a feeling he was never going to forget that name.

xxx

Harry had been sitting for hours in the sun, feeling like a roasting ham in the oven that was his squad car. He was on edge.

To stop Hermione's nagging, he went out the night before. His old college buddy Neville had two good things that needed celebrating this past weekend. He finally got the teaching position he wanted at a local high school, and had also just gotten engaged. Unfortunately, the latter of the two good things meant Neville's last several weeks were spent at home poring over endless binders of flower arrangements and the ten thousand ways to fold a dinner napkin. The cabin fever got to him. To accommodate the feelings of his fiancée, Neville was only permitted to go to the gay village. Of course Harry was called upon to play tour guide.

It started off as a fairly mild evening in Capper's Bar, but after a few drinks Harry was getting fed up with the crowds of giggling college boys and sparkling conversations that he didn't have the wit to keep up with.

When he slipped off to the Tuesday Club across the street, he had two intentions.

One was to get himself out of the slump he was in for the last several months, and the second was to forget about the fruitless ride he took in a certain banker's fancy French sports car earlier that week. But he ended up prowling the darkness in a sour mood, finding himself scanning the crowd for a crown of silver hair. He eventually succumbed to a petite bottle-blonde in a mesh t-shirt. The guy had way with his mouth and good with his tongue, but he just couldn't sate Harry's hunger. He only whetted Harry's appetite.

Go down on John indeed. Damn shitty advice.

Harry went home early. He hadn't jerked off that many times in one night since he was a teenager.

His feelings toward Draco Malfoy didn't make a whole lot of sense to himself either. He chalked it up to frustration. He didn't remember the last time he got really laid – like skin on fire, fingers in his hair, and wobbly in the spine kind of laid, and not the quick thing in the corner of a sex club that he usually had to settle for.

His disappointing encounter at Tuesday's was all the more abominable in retrospect, especially in the light of the noontime sun on the curb of the financial district.

Harry pulled himself out of his reverie just in time to spot Malfoy's ivory Bugatti pulling up from the underground parking of the AVR building. He kicked his engine into a roar and followed, feeling jitters in his abdomen.

He needed a lead, any lead. Malfoy gave him nothing the day before. In the form of information that is. Malfoy gave him plenty of sultry looks and sexually laced glib. If he kept that up, Harry would be likely to give him something in return, and he'd give it to him hard.

Harry gritted his teeth and forcibly cleared the images from his head. Going down that train of thought again would lead him nowhere.

Traffic in the city was always bad, especially at this time of the day. But there were occasional side streets you could tear down. Flooring it for two blocks wouldn't make up for lost time but it sure as hell felt like it did – if you were lucky and there weren't any cops around, that is. Harry was determined that today was not going to be Malfoy's lucky day.

Harry kept his eye on the speedometer and flashed his lights, ready to blast Malfoy with the siren when given the chance. But there was no need for that – Malfoy's sports car grinded to a halt.

Harry took his time getting out of the squad car. He steeled himself best that he could, but still wasn't entirely prepared to see Malfoy. He was drumming his long fingers on the steering wheel, silver hair curled and swept to the side today. A long winding strand fell over his eye as he turned to glare at Harry.

"You were speeding," Harry stated.

"Oh, detective," he did not sound surprised. "I didn't know they moved you to traffic response. I'm sorry to see that. Did your case end that badly?"

Harry fought to turn his scowl into a tight-lipped smile. "The investigation is still ongoing."

Malfoy smoothed down the lapel of his suit jacket and looked away. "I'm not talking to you without my lawyer present," he said, annoyed. Harry couldn't help but admire that profile. No. He needed to get a grip on himself or he'll end up getting nowhere again. "I told you to make an appointment," Malfoy drawled.

"Funny thing is, I had been trying to," Harry responded curtly. "Your secretary said you were busy."

"I am," Malfoy said, and then clammed right up.

Harry decided to try a different approach. "Are you heading somewhere in a hurry?"

Malfoy's steely gaze flickered to Harry. "Yes, I have a waiting reservation at the Hunt Club Grill on 16th."

Harry made mental note. That was the high-end restaurant Councillor Beechwood took frequent meetings at. "You go there a lot?"

"They have good barbeque," Malfoy drawled, as if he was making a dining recommendation to a friend. "They do something special with the veal," he catches Harry's eyes, "it's very tender, and juicy."

Harry felt his mouth go dry. Did Malfoy hear himself when he talked? A sane person having a normal conversation surely wouldn't choose those particular words. "Oh, is it?" Harry said distractedly.

"Yes, makes the meat very easy to swallow."

Harry couldn't read Malfoy's poker face. He felt himself flushing. Malfoy had to be doing this intentionally. Harry caught himself thinking he'd like to show Malfoy something that wasn't so easy to swallow. No. Stop.

He didn't know how to reply without saying something he'd regret, so he just didn't say anything. The inexplicable growing hardness in his lower body was draining the blood from his brain.

Malfoy decided to keep going. "Only thing I wouldn't suggest is the sauerkraut plate. It's hard to talk business with your mouth _full_ of sausage."

Harry tried to school his face into a mask. Un-fucking-believable.

"I don't want to make you late, then," he finally managed to say. "I'll escort you."

Malfoy shook his handsome head with a smirk on his lips. "No need. If I ever need an escort, I can call one."

Harry ignored the jab. "I insist, as an apology for taking up you time."

Harry returned to his car and turns on his police lights. He led the way to 16th Avenue, eye constantly scanning the rear view mirror, in case Malfoy decided to take an unplanned detour. Malfoy didn't, and they arrived at the restaurant in record time. However, instead of parking out in front, Malfoy pulled into the loading area behind the building. Harry followed.

"Is this the place?" He asked out his window.

Malfoy parked his car and sauntered over. "Yes," he gestured to a small open door that led into the restaurant's kitchen. "People like me prefer the back door."

It took Harry a moment to wipe the stunned look off his face, and even after so he could still feel his cheeks burning.

Malfoy seemed to find something amusing. "By the way, take that way back to the main streets. You'll have to –"

Harry heard what was coming before it was said. "Let me guess –"

"…go down on –"

"John?"

Malfoy gave him a smug little smirk, like he just won a game that Harry didn't know they were playing. "Yep, all the way down."

As Malfoy slipped through the kitchen doors, Harry pressed his forehead into the ridges of his steering wheel, silently furious with himself.

"That was fucking embarrassing," he muttered to himself as he drove off.

xxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Folie a Deux**

* * *

xxx

Harry glared at television screen. There was the councillor's black Lincoln pulling up to the curb on 16th and stopping for a second before turning into the little driveway that led into the back of the Hunt Club. The car was just visible at the edge of the surveillance footage Harry had obtained from the jewellery store across the street from the restaurant.

But it didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. Harry pulled an all-nighter trying to find some way to use that footage to pin something on Malfoy, something tangible that he could use to launch an official investigation. But when the sun crept up the horizon, Harry still had nothing. The trail was as cold as it was the night before.

Just as it started to look like he had no more reason to hound Malfoy, fate intervened. Harry found that the powers that be had a twisted sense of humor.

Kingsley stormed into the station, fuming like a volcano, Harry could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears. A key witness for his upcoming trial disappeared in the middle of the night, despite being placed under protection. Kingsley was understandably frustrated. He had been working on the case for months, and the most important evidence was based upon his missing witness's testimony.

"You think he was offed?" Harry asked.

"I hope not," Kingsley grimaced, "he was a smart guy, really smart. Thing is, his wife and kid also vanished from their safe house last night. Hope that means he took them with him."

Harry wasn't feeling so generous. "Or they could all be offed."

Kingsley stared at him.

"What?" Harry said, defensive. "It's happened before."

Kingsley shook his head and put his face in his palms, dropping his case file onto Harry's desk.

"What's this?" Something slipped out of the file and caught Harry's eye. He reached for it.

"Just a bunch of papers from my witness's apartment," Kingsley replied.

Harry picked up a sleek white business card. It had the green AVR logo on the front and no name. There was only an address. An address for an office located on the 48th floor. The excitement that flooded through Harry was only half attributed to the rush of adrenaline that comes as he makes a breakthrough. The other half was associated with the image of a reclined figure and refined features. In his mind's eyes, Harry was seeing pink, blushing skin that disappeared down the collar and continued down for miles and miles.

"Kingsley," Harry said, raising the card to the other man's attention.

Kingsley frowned. "I checked with them already, my guy didn't have any accounts with them."

"Then why does he have Draco Malfoy card?"

"How do you know it's his?" Kingsley asked.

Harry pointed. "Malfoy's office is on the 48th floor."

Kingsley still wasn't convinced. "And how many other offices are on that floor? It's a big building, Potter."

Harry chewed on that for a minute. He remembered being led down a narrow hallway to that shining office. Every other door they encountered along the way was inexplicably closed. Harry had an idea. "We'll find out."

Kingsley saw the look on Harry's face and perked up. "How?"

Harry picked up his desk phone and made a quick call. "Hey, Neville, can you do me a favor?" he waggled his eyebrow at Kingsley and grinned ear to ear.

A few hours later Harry and Neville stood in the concourse lobby of the AVR building.

"Just go up to the reception," Harry urged.

"But," Neville looked nervous, "who do I ask for?"

Harry shook his head. "No one. Just say you have an appointment and give them this card."

Neville didn't move. "What if they–" Harry cut him off with an impatient push.

"Tell him you want to do an investment," Harry said lowly, eyes sweeping the floor.

Neville shuffled towards the receptionist desk. "I do want to start an RSP," he told Harry.

"Good," Harry replied distractedly, "tell him that."

"Tell who?" Neville demanded.

Harry gave him another push, harder this time. _Go_ , Harry mouthed. Neville turned to give him a conflicted look before making himself known to the smiling brunette behind the counter. She nodded when he showed her the business card and motioned for him to follow. Harry ducked behind a small potted tree next to one of the massive columns that forested the lobby as they stepped into the elevator together. Harry watched the floor numbers above the elevator door light up one by one until they finally stopped at forty-eight. Taking a deep breath, Harry looked down at his cell for the time.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen minutes. Then twenty.

Harry took that as a good sign.

Harry's cell buzzed. He picked up on the last ring, eyes glued to the elevator doors. "Potter here."

"We have a positive ID on a body that got pulled out of the harbor this morning," Kingsley said dejectedly over the line. "It's my witness. He's been submerged for a while. Body was all bloated. They had to pull the dental records."

It took Harry a second to process that. "Damn," he offered.

"I'm gonna find the sons of bitches that did that," Kingsley promised grimly.

The elevator doors opened. "Yes, we will," Harry answered belatedly after the line went dead. He watched as Neville stepped out, clutching an armful of papers and booklets, followed by Malfoy. Harry wondered for a second why Malfoy would personally show a client out. He hid behind a column as they passed, chatting amicably, headed toward the front doors.

Once they were out of sight, Harry sent a quick text to Neville, telling him to wait at the end of the street. Harry looked up when he felt a shiver at the back of his neck, raising goosebumps down his arms. He had been spotted. Harry froze like a deer.

Malfoy walked up without a word, his pale eyes unreadable, and handed Harry a small square of hard paper. Harry didn't look too closely but he was fairly certain it was the AVR card he had sent Neville up with. Then Malfoy turned, still expressionless, and walked off.

Harry was left staring after him.

Shaking off the feeling of unease that was descending suddenly, Harry hurried out of the building and down the street.

"What happened, Neville?" He was slouched next to a hot dog stand, leafing through a small booklet in his hands.

Neville looked up guiltily. "I panicked, I'm sorry. He asked me who referred him…"

Harry grimaced. This is why you never ask for civilian help in investigations.

"Who the hell was he anyway?" Neville asked. "Didn't seem to know a thing about doing investments."

Harry was almost surprised. "He didn't?"

"Not a thing," Neville made a face. "But he gave off this feeling…like…like…" Neville trailed off, and then said, "I have goosebumps."

"Me too, Neville, me too." Harry felt like he should thank his friend in some way. He slapped Neville on the back. "I'll take you out. I owe you one."

Neville frowned and pointed to his empty ring finger.

Harry sighed. "Gay village only, I know. I'll take you to a pub there. They have good burgers."

xxx

Theodore Nott kicked up his feet onto the coffee table and made himself at home in Draco's flat, though really it was Draco's dad's, considering he paid for the place.

Theo was the second of his name. Nott Sr. was Theo's boss as well as his father. It was on Theo's suggestion that his father offered a position at AVR to Draco, who took it gladly. Draco had been desperate to get out of his father's shadow at the time. Theo thought Draco wouldn't have been so claustrophobic if he ventured out of the closet.

The Malfoys certainly loved to stifle their son. Daddy paid for the cars, the schools, the clothes, even the food. Draco was content to throw his own money at anyone who would give him a good time, for a price. He had no sense of discretion.

Speaking of…Draco didn't sound happy on the phone. Theo hoped the frustration was work related, or something – as long as it wasn't Theo-related, because he wasn't planning to leave until morning.

All hope was quickly dashed when Draco slammed the door and tossed his Armani jacket on the floor. "You fucked up, Theo," were the first words out of Draco's mouth.

Theo heard that time all too many times during their years of friendship. Draco was good to have in class at boarding school, good to have in bed with his face in the pillow, but a nightmare to work with in the office. He took his job too seriously and, worse, expected others to do the same.

Theo slid his feet off the coffee table with a thud. "What happened?"

"I told you to take care of the girl," Draco said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up. "Beechwood's maid?" he added impatiently, off Theo's blank look.

"I did."

"No," Draco huffed from the other side of the room, "someone found her."

"It doesn't matter," Theo rolled his eyes. Draco was paranoid, as always. "I wiped her clean, nothing traceable, definitely not back to us at least."

"They did trace it back, Theo, to us, to me. I had a homicide detective in my office last week, and today, a high school teacher shows up with the business card I gave your client."

That was unexpected. "My referral, you mean?" Theo sighed, "I took care of him already. They just found the decoy by the docks. He's home free."

Draco didn't look consoled. He re-emerged from the bedroom, changed out of his usual suit and tie. Casual looked good on him. The t-shirt made him less intimidating looking, and the way his sweatpants hung off his hips made Theo want to stick his hands inside the waistband.

"I'm sorry." Theo would say just about anything at this point, just to get these pants off Draco. He crossed the room and slid close. "I'll make it up to you." And he would be glad to.

The only response he got was an icy glare.

Theo stood behind Draco and kneaded his shoulders. Draco's muscles were tight. Theo leaned down to kiss his neck, and hand slipping down his chest. Theo wanted him to distract him, tire him out, and maybe he'd forget about it all in the morning.

"Not in the mood, Theo."

Theo watched Draco walk off, bewildered.

Strange, he thought. Draco was always in the mood, in fact, he gets especially pliable and creative when he's mad. Theo rolled his shoulders and picked up his sweater from the back of a chair. He needed to find someone else who was in the mood.

Theo took a short drive down to the Bridle – the city's gay village. Draco would never come around these parts with Theo, he had _specific_ tastes, he wouldn't leave it all up to chance, and he would definitely never consider bedding a stranger. It was easier and less complicated to pay a man and tell him exactly what to do. Draco's type of lovers was those who followed instructions, and were awarded handsomely for doing so.

Theo parked and surveyed the street. Capper's Bar was where you'd go for a good time and good conversation. The Stallion Pub was for handsome bus boys with dirty mouths, and dirtier minds. Tuesday's Club had nothing good, just groping hands in the dark and quick fucks in a cramped booth.

Theo glanced at his diamond-encrusted Rolex. He had work to get back to soon. Tuesday's it was, then. Not like Draco was here judging him and wrinkling his nose. Sometimes people liked having a little sordid detail in their loves. It added color to their biographies. If anyone was inclined to write one about Theo, he wanted it to be bursting with these details.

With that in mind, Theo braved the dark and the thumping bass, looking for the right one. His gaze swept over the dancing bodies and lingered on the occupied booths that lined the edges of the club, with the curtains half drawn, and glimpsed flesh between the dark fabrics.

There was a certain kind of guys on the loose here, who wanted no names, no numbers, and no expectations for anything more. It wasn't sad, just practical. They were the get-off-and-get-out kind. That was Theo's kind.

There, on the left.

Dark hair, tall but not lanky, built but not bulky. He was good-looking with emerald green eyes filled to the brim with pent-up lust and the s over-starved look of grim determination.

Perfect.

"Want to take a picture?" the other man asked as Theo marveled for a bit too long.

"No," Theo answered, walking closer and grinning. "I've seen enough."

Then it was all warm lips, quick tongue, and strong arms leading Theo to an empty booth. Theo didn't even have time to sit down. Green-eyes was that eager. Theo didn't want to sit either; he didn't need grime and whatever else on his tailored pants.

Theo suggested that the lips at his collar bone would be put to better use if they were somewhere else. Green-eyes didn't mind getting grime on his pants, and got down on his knees quickly enough. He wasn't as skilled as to make Theo shiver, but the desperation on his tongue burned through the latex and the desire in those fluttering eyes did get Theo off. The icing on the cake was that he didn't ask for Theo to return the favor, and Theo didn't offer. Green-eyes had his hands in his pants the whole time and he probably took care of himself just fine.

"Thanks," Theo winked, zipping up his fly.

"Yeah," Green-eyes replied awkwardly, suddenly shy, "no problem."

When Theo emerged from the darkness of Tuesday's, he had 2 missed calls on his phone. He jogged down the sidewalk toward his car, wondering if Draco had changed his mind.

xxx

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 **Caisele:**

Thanks for the reviews, let me know what you think of this chapter. I'm trying to get back into the groove of writing, and am a bit rusty. Any feedback would help, thanks.


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